


Cold Blooded

by scrapbullet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Mindfuck, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know where you are.</p><p>It's dark, the ground beneath your feet hard and compacted. Frost lends it<i> a delightful crunch-</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Blooded

You don't know where you are.

It's dark, the ground beneath your feet hard and compacted. Frost lends it _a delightful crunch-_

_-and you remember ice-skating in winter with him, his fingers wrapped around yours as you laughed, joyful, his smile warming you in ways you've never felt before because you're just a girl, just seventeen and-_

-you shudder. You exhale, and the air fogs in front of you; it's cold, so cold, and your fingers are numb with it. They ache when you rub them together in an attempt to generate heat, but it's no use, you've been out here for too long. Your eyelashes stick together every time you blink and your teeth chatter so hard your jaw aches, but it's just another little agony that pulls you away from your thoughts.

You stumble over a root. You fall. All you can smell is the hot, steaming sweetness of blood and guts and rot, and you're practically swimming in it, gore soaking into your jeans as your hands slip on ice-covered _viscera-_

_-that coats your hands, thick and sliding between your fingers and oh god, why did he have to die? Why? He loved you, but he found out, and there can be no loose ends; you had to, you did, and it had taken so long to cut into him that you'd thought you'd lose all energy before you were done. Exhausted, you-_

-blink rapidly, breath coming hard and fast. Your stomach rolls, gorge rising, bile bitter on your tongue. You can't help it; the vomit comes up in spits and spurts, co-mingling with the rancid corpse you're leaning over. 

The corpse looks surprised. His mouth is open, his tongue engorged. He'd suffocated long before the unsub had begun to cut him open. 

The unsub cut him in half post-mortem. Your mouth fills with saliva, and when you vomit again you can no longer keep yourself on your hands and knees; you pitch forward, your face mashing into intestines and her thoughts flood through you as-

"Will?"

-as there's a light shining in your eyes. You struggle to sit up, but you can't. There's a pain in your head that pounds like the beat of a drum behind your eyes and it makes you want to claw at them, but it hurts too much to move. Your stomach rolls. The light moves away, and a warm palm touches your cheek.

There's a sigh, and it isn't yours. You can smell cologne - something warm with a hint of cedarwood - and it soothes you.

"Will, do you know where you are?"

You shake your head. There's blood in your mouth; you're covered in it, drying under your fingernails, but when you look up at Hannibal he is wearing such an expression of unruffled serenity - like he sees nothing, nothing at all, like you're not caked in gore and stinking of vomit - that your mind reels, and collapses in on itself.

"I think we should be getting you inside, hm? You'll catch a death of cold, and we can't be having that. Perhaps some soup? Or..." Your sight tunnels, and your chest hitches. 

Hannibal just pulls you to your unsteady feet, his deft fingers buttoning up your jacket - one, two, three.

There's blood on the cuff of his shirt.

Distantly, you realise that you've finally cracked.

You can't even trust your own senses anymore.


End file.
